


a touch too far

by jdphoenix



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 01, Sex Pollen, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 12:50:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11646924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: “For the last time, there is no such thing as sex pollen.”





	a touch too far

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a first sentence prompt over on tumblr and VERY heavily inspired by the Star Trek episode "The Naked Time." 
> 
> Also fair warning there is nothing graphic in this, despite it being a sex pollen fic. A while ago on tumblr I announced I was quitting writing smut so this is as close as I'll get.

“For the last time, there is no such thing as sex pollen,” Simmons sighs out. There’s an edge to the fondly snappish tone she uses whenever Fitz is on her last nerve, which is probably down to this being another gift of contact with aliens. “The drug merely lowers inhibitions. That some people are driven primarily by sexual urges is their own shortcoming.”

“Still,” Skye says, “is Ward infected? Because…” Her eyes roll upward and everyone’s attention turns to the faint banging coming from the Cage. Their guest isn’t trying to get out; last Grant saw he was laughing about the blood gushing from his head. Personally, Grant would rather that not be him in a few hours.

Simmons’ breath falls over his bare chest, waking up his nerves and then stabbing them in the eye when she starts stitching the cut that bastard up there gave him. “The tests will take time,” she says while she works.

“Luckily the scientists in this facility got pretty far studying the drug before they lost control of it,” Fitz says.

Simmons digs her needle into Grant’s skin again. “Because of its origin, they weren’t prepared for how it would affect human anatomy,” she says and yeah, that edge is _definitely_ because of the alien thing. “Once the body’s exposed, its cells learn how to reproduce the drug on its own, flooding the system. Excess is secreted through the sweat glands, allowing for person-to-person transference.”

The tail end of that assessment— _like a virus—_ hangs in the air of the lab.

“Is it what killed those people?” Coulson asks, voice bordering on his gentle dad tone.

Simmons nods. “Eventually there’s too much build up for the sweat glands to expel and the body can’t function. Or they die from the drugs’ other effects.”

The lab goes quiet again as everyone’s minds go back to the horror show that is Ferris Labs, locked up tight and sitting about a hundred yards from the Bus.

“So we’re gonna give Ward _all the tests_ , right?” Skye asks into the ensuing silence.

“Of course,” Simmons says at the same moment she ties off the last stitch.

“Be thorough,” Coulson says, “but also be careful.” He meets Grant’s eyes. “If you start to feel anything-”

“I’ll get her out of here,” he says. “If it’s anything like the berserker staff, I’ll know it when I feel it.”

Coulson nods gravely and heads for the door, herding Skye and Fitz ahead of him.

“But-” Fitz says, looking worriedly back to Simmons. He’s probably thinking of all the same things she is—hell, all the same things they _all_ are.

May grips his shoulder, stalling his protests. “If anyone has been exposed, we need to minimize the danger. Simmons knows that.” It’s half-statement, half-question thrown back at her.

She nods resolutely. “Of course. I’m sure we’ll be fine.” But Grant’s close enough to see her cheeks pale when the lab doors close, locking the two of them in.

“No one touched me,” he says gently while she takes a blood draw. “Not skin-to-skin, anyway.” There was some fighting while they made their initial sweep of the building, but he was wearing his full tac gear and no one in there was what he’d call a real fighter. Probably anyone who was got wiped out in the first wave of contamination.

“It’s still best to be careful.”

He nods. He figured as much, but he was saying it more to reassure her.

She waves the vial of blood at him. “This will take a while.”

He watches while she heads for the side of the room that’s strictly hers, where Fitz’s “greasy gears” are not allowed for fear they’ll contaminate her equipment. She seems steady enough, if a little twitchy. Once she’s got her gloves off she plays with her hair, touches her face in a way that strikes him as reassuring, fidgets with her hands. But that could be just as much because of _him_ as her own fears. Her tactical awareness is better than the nothing it was when she first came into the field and after the scare that facility must’ve given her, her adrenaline’s gotta be up; she probably feels him watching.

He turns away, focusing on the screen in the corner of the lab and the view it gives him of their prisoners. The one in the Cage has finally settled down—he’s splayed out on the floor and Grant might think he’s killed himself except every so often his hand moves, drawing patterns in the pool of his blood. And in the medpod the female prisoner is still struggling against the straps holding her down even though it’s been the better part of an hour.

“Do you think this thing ups endurance?” he asks. It’d explain why Ferris’ scientists were so interested in it. A drug like that would have countless uses, all of them marketable to the right buyer.

Simmons hums a non-response and then she … keeps humming. A faint little nothing tune that cuts in and out so he can’t identify it.

She’s still looking at the machine that’s spinning his blood around. Maybe she didn’t hear him. “Simmons?” he asks. Nothing.

He hesitates. Any other time he’d go over to her, check to see what’s wrong, but he’s potentially been exposed to an alien drug that transfers via skin contact. Too close and he’ll probably freak her out.

Maybe that’s why she’s ignoring him. It might not even be conscious, she does tend to get tunnel vision when she’s sciencing.

Still, the humming’s a little weird. Not only has he never heard Simmons so much as sing along to the radio, but this isn’t exactly the time for lighthearted music.

He looks to the screen again, tapping the controls to bring up a view of the briefing room. The others are clustered around, probably talking about this case without the two of them. His finger hovers over the intercom button.

Light fingertips— _bare_ fingertips—brush the planes of his back. He whirls, catching Simmons’ wrist—she’s wearing long sleeves today, good thing—out of the air and holding it away.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Her other hand snakes up between them, sliding flat along his chest just close enough to the cut to send a pulse of pain/pleasure through him. He grabs that wrist too.

“ _Simmons_.”

She’s frowning at his chest. “You’re always getting hurt,” she says. “Always protecting us.” She looks to his shoulder and her left wrist twists in his grip, trying to reach for it. “You wouldn’t even let me look at you on the train.”

She’s been infected. He’s not a doctor, not even kind-of-one the way she is, but he’s smart enough to know that’s the only thing that could have her acting like this. He tries to think through the anger pounding in his veins—sometime during that sweep one of those bastards wandering the halls of Ferris labs got close enough to infect her and he had no idea—he knows Fitz keeps a pair of handcuffs down here—he likes showing off for Skye by Houdini-ing his way out of them—but they could be anywhere in these drawers and Grant’s still got an inhibitionless biochemist to control in the meantime.

He considers whether he could grab her around the back, hold her arms motionless with one arm and still avoid exposure while hitting the comm button with his free hand.

Before he can decide whether it’s possible or he might hurt her doing it, she moves closer, resting her weight against him. Her hair brushes his bare chest and that pain/pleasure he was feeling tips more towards the happy side. He’s so stunned he doesn’t even react until he feels her forehead brush his pecks. He pushes her back into the opposite counter and rubs at the spot, then down to where her hand touched his chest. His back is burning where her fingertips landed but reaching there would be awkward and he wants his hands at the ready in case she makes another move.

“Simmons,” he says, “you’ve been infected.” Her pupils are too wide but she’s focusing on him at least, meeting his eyes and—he thinks—paying attention.

“I know,” she says evenly. “It’s the only way to explain my aberrant behavior. I would never allow myself to touch you under normal circumstances.”

She sounds lucid. Which is good. Better than the frothing at the mouth the guy upstairs was doing. Grant decides to keep her talking, keep her brain working. Maybe it’ll slow the drug down.

“You touch me all the time,” he says, smiling his friendly smile. “You patch me up when I get hurt.”

She shakes her head, her eyes dropping to where his hands are still rubbing at his chest. “But that’s not how I want to touch you.”

He’s suddenly hyper aware of his hands on his bare skin. He feels warm. Hot. Doesn’t she keep the lab cooler than this?

Her hands are on him again, touching places his haven’t reached yet. He should push her off.

“You touch me all the time too,” she says. Her hands are moving, they’re everywhere and nowhere, too much and not enough.

He really needs to push her away.

“As a protector,” she says, “as a friend. I wish I could touch you like that, but I can’t.”

“Your crush,” he murmurs past dry lips. He swallows, feeling hoarse. 

Her hands are in his hair now. Her breasts brush against his chest whenever she breathes. He wants to feel them there without the clothes in between them.

“You knew?” she asks, looking almost heartbroken.

Of course he knows about her crush; he’s gone to a lot of trouble to ensure she’s as gone on him as possible. Which’ll make it easier to get that blouse off her.

He stills. This needs to stop. _Now_.

He grabs her hips, his hands like steel. “I’m a dangerous man,” he says. “That guy you think you’re in love with, he’s not real.” He bites down on his tongue hard. That’s a little too close to the truth.

“I know you think that,” she says sadly, “but being dangerous doesn’t preclude being good. I know you hurt people, that it’s your job, but you do those things for good reasons. Sometimes you have to hurt someone to do the right thing. Like…” her fingers dance across his skin- “like cutting out a cancer.”

That’s it. That’s exactly it. If he’d ever considered the possibility, innocent Agent Simmons would have been low on his list, but it turns out she really gets him, somehow.

“You have to make hard choices and it- it only makes me love you more.”

His heart twists. With the drug pulsing through him it’s easy to admit he wants that, wants to be loved  _for_ what he is, not in spite of it. 

He thinks about the mission—not the investigation of why Ferris labs went dark, the _real_ mission—and all he’s had to do, all he’s had to let happen to get it done. Not just the lives lost, he’s used to collateral damage, but the damage done to the team. She understands him, but that doesn’t mean she’ll understand when the pain he causes is hers.

“I’ll hurt _you_ ,” he says, forcing the words out.

She smiles, that wide Simmons smile that she doesn’t realize makes guys think all sorts of perverted things. She goes up on her toes and he feels himself helping her, his hands sliding around to cup her ass so she’s got more support. And so he can feel her ass, no point in denying it.

Her lips brush his jaw, not a kiss but close enough his blood hums in his veins, carrying the drug deeper. “Under the right conditions, I’d enjoy that.”

He moves without thinking, taking her across the narrow aisle and setting her on the edge of the counter. He should stop, pull back, hit that little green button behind him and call Coulson down here to separate them until they can find a cure.

It’s strange looking up to meet Simmons’ eyes, kinda a turn on. He reaches for the buttons of her blouse instead of the ones that will summon the others; time to get rid of those clothes. “I’m gonna make you scream my name,” he says.

“I sincerely hope you do.”

 


End file.
